


your heartbeat keeps me light

by purloinedinpetrograd



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2012-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-15 07:55:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/524946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purloinedinpetrograd/pseuds/purloinedinpetrograd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott has always had Stiles - and Stiles will do anything for Scott. Even this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your heartbeat keeps me light

**Author's Note:**

> ok so don't kill me for posting something before Chapter 3 of BCCH, it'S ON THE WAY and not even close to abandoned so don't worry about that. This was just written as a SERIOUSLY NEEDED THANK YOU GIFT FOR JINXII who is the best alpha ever, and also as a bit of practice to get me out of a writing slump I got in so I'll be able to charge through the rest of chapter 3.
> 
> also. porn is not my specialty. so, there's that.

Scott has always had Stiles, but never quite like this. Or, maybe this isn't as new as Scott believes it to be; he's starting to realize that _this_ has always been there, a slow undercurrent that had always rushed beneath their friendship and has just now begun to roar.

Scott hadn't been consciously aware of whatever machinations led him here, to this moment - the events that had formed the stepping stones on this path had gone by without notice, and only now does Scott stop to think about how far they have come. It's the worst of times to be caught up in thought, because Stiles is writhing beneath him, all bare, heated skin, his clothes strewn somewhere on the floor and long since forgotten. "C'mon," Stiles urges, voice coming out as a thin whine, eyes fixed closed as he places his hand over Scott's, guiding him to his cock. Scott doesn't need any more guidance than that; he curls his hand around the hot flesh, stroking upwards, brushing a thumb over the head and smearing a trail of precome down as he begins to pick up a steady rhythm, watching intently as the breath flees from Stiles' lungs.

Neither of them has spoken it - Scott is finding that for all that Stiles is fond of talking, they have begun to communicate so much more without the use of words - so Scott knows what Stiles is offering tonight; knows that what is being offered has never been so before, and Scott has never thought to ask for. But, Scott _needs_ it - god, does Scott need it - and Stiles is more than willing to provide it for him, because Stiles is always looking out for Scott.

It feels like maybe this is it, maybe this is the step that really is going to change things forever - Stiles is surrendering himself in a way that he never has before - to Scott, to anyone. But then, maybe it isn't such a big deal, really - maybe it's some sort of weird wolf thing, Scott has to wonder; fucking Stiles will also be _claiming_ Stiles, and he has to think that, maybe, that's not the normal response to casual sex. With your best friend.

Even that feels like a lie, though.

When he had first tackled Stiles into the ground one night - the clock had been ticking well past afternoon, but the sun was still lingering in the sky, light scattering through the tree leaves and the air still sticky and heavy against their skin, and Scott had pushed Stiles down, holding him there, pressed against his body and all he could hear was the pounding of Stiles' heart and the catching of his breath, and all he could feel was the way his pulse fluttered in the veins of his wrists held firmly in place by Scott, and the heat that radiated from him, _all_ of him -

and Scott hadn't let go, hadn't moved, just held him too long and with a bit too much force, and when Stiles had cleared his throat, it rang through Scott's head like a gunshot. But Stiles didn't move either, and he didn't say anything, which for Stiles had said _everything._

It was an invitation, and Scott had accepted greedily; everything was done fast, and with a desperate pulse of neediness, and when they kissed it was too forceful and their teeth clashed more times than could be comfortable; and when Stiles had fumbled with his pants, Scott had nearly ripped them apart in an effort to get to skin - and when he ground his cock against Stiles' hip, desperate for friction, for _contact_ , Stiles had jutted up against him, wrapping his hand around both of their cocks, bringing them together, and neither of them had stopped for even a moment to think about what they were doing.

They didn't talk about it much, either, except for once in Stiles' jeep, when Scott had called him late one night because jerking off into his own hand wasn't enough - not after so long being accustomed to the warmth of another body, of _Allison's_ body - and as he sat in the seat, suddenly realizing he had no clue how to ask for what he wanted, how to tell Stiles, "Hey, remember how sometimes when we play lacrosse and we end with jacking each other off, can we do that tonight?" -

Stiles had pulled over, looked Scott in the eye and told him, "I get it. You need this, and, well, we all know that _I_ need it - " and his lips pulled into a smirk at that - "so, you know," a pause, a hand run over hair that was barely long enough to part between his fingers, "this doesn't change anything."

But it did. It _did_ , and Scott can't pretend that everything is the same, except sometimes there is sex, because he had _never_ looked at Stiles like he looks at him now; watching, sometimes, when he gets up from the couch, at the outline of the body beneath his clothes - or, he had never listened to everything Stiles says, but never before because he is too fixated on his lips, and the way they are ever so-slightly chapped, and he's thinking about the way they looked when wrapped around his cock instead -

Or even because his eyes focus on where the hem of his shirt falls, knowing that beneath layers of fabric there is bare skin marred by swatches of purple and lines of red, and Scott was the one who had left them there. (Scott tries to be gentle - he does - but Stiles is not Allison and Scott is not Derek, and Scott cannot always control himself, and Stiles cannot calm him, no matter how hard he tries - no matter how much he wishes he could.)

So, no, Scott decides, this isn't the step that changes everything, because that has already happened.

But it still might be the step that takes them past the point where they can turn back. If he stops here - if Scott rolls off of Stiles and puts on his clothes and drives home, and never asks for anything like this of Stiles again - then, maybe, he'll eventually forget the way Stiles looks right now, and maybe this will fade into a memory Scott rarely revisits.

But if he doesn't (and he won't, knows it deep in his bones that he could never walk away from this, not know, not when Stiles is so warm, so slick with _want_ and, even more than that, _need_ ), something will break - something will give way, and they'll never be able to put it back.

He doesn't have much more time to think about this, though, because Stiles doesn't let him, grinding his hips upwards, seeking more friction than he's being provided, spreading his thighs a bit. "Scott, please, _more_ ," he begs - the words always tumble freely from his mouth when they're like this, just as they always do, and Stiles is never above asking for what he wants - and Scott wraps his hand around Stiles' cock a little tighter, but he knows that's not what Stiles is asking for. He releases Stiles, then, ignoring the small whimper that he lets out at the loss of contact, bracing one arm to the side of Stiles and bringing another up to his head, carding his fingers through hair that hasn't been cut in some time and is just long enough now for him to hold on to, pulling Stiles' head back slightly, leaning over to bite at Stiles' lower lip - not quite a kiss but a sign of affection nonetheless. 

"Lube," Stiles gasps out, and it takes Scott's brain a second longer than normal to process what Stiles is saying. "It's - in my drawer - " and when he looks at Scott, suddenly he can sense the change in him; the rapid change in his scent from needy to shameful, as if he's suddenly not sure that this is even something that Scott wants, and Scott knows he's wondering if he's somehow gotten it all wrong and Scott's going to be grossed out by him.

"I'll get it," Scott tells him quickly, reaching for the drawer and fumbling for a brief moment before coming back, kneeling between Stiles' spread legs, staring down at him, hesitant. Stiles has propped himself up on his arms slightly, face flushed and his abused lips slightly parted as he stares downward, his skin coated in a light sheen of sweat, and Scott has to resist the urge to lick down his chest to the soft patch of hair where his cock, still hard, rests against his abdomen, because he's sitting here with a tube full of lube and he's not quite sure what to do with it, but he knows he has to do something, _fast_.

Stiles looks up at him, eyes bright, pink tongue darting out to wet his lips. "I - here," he asks, "let me?" and he reaches his hand out for the lube. Scott gives it to him, automatically, frozen with his own lust and the knowledge that his cock is _painfully_ hard but suddenly not sure how to proceed. Which - it's silly, because he's had sex with Allison countless times before, and he's known Stiles' body, if not as often as Allison's - somewhere close; enough to know the spots on his body that make him spike with lust, the places to bite hard, and the ones to just graze with teeth; he knows what Stiles looks like when he comes, has nearly memorized the expression -

But he's suddenly at a loss, and he can only watch as Stiles slicks his fingers with the lube, before bringing one hand down, below his balls, lifting his hips upwards and spreading his legs further apart as he presses one slick finger against himself, and then - slowly, agonizingly slowly for Scott, who for the moment only watches - inside himself, eyes screwed close and mouth hanging open. He doesn't make a sound as he slowly pushes in, further, Scott transfixed at the way he's opening around himself, and it's like something snaps - because now Scott _has_ to move.

He waits, though, until Stiles has pushed his finger in to the knuckle, slowly slid it out and then back in, working himself open, before pouring the lube onto his own fingers, working the cool liquid between them before leaning over Stiles. His eyes are closed, and he's not expecting it when Scott tugs his own hand away and replaces it with his fingers - his eyes snap open, and he looks at him, and a small whimper escapes from the back of his throat when Scott presses into him. "Sc _ott_ ," he gasps, throwing one leg over Scott's back, angling himself so he's pressing down on Scott even more now, and Scott can't get over it, the way Stiles clenches around him, _hot_ , and when he slowly adds another finger, Stiles isn't quiet at all.

It's not quite a good sound - not the one that Scott is accustomed to hearing - and so he panics, stopping, and is about to to pull out and ask Stiles if he's ok, when Stiles grinds out, "I swear to god, if you do not start moving again, I am going cut you open and grind wolfsbane into the wound," and Scott supposes that's all he needs.

When he starts to move his fingers again, experimentally spreading them apart, seeing how far he can stretch Stiles open - because he's only got two fingers in him now, and it's already impossibly tight and his cock is _much_ bigger than just two fingers - Stiles cries out again, except this time there's no mistaking that it's in pleasure. Scott smiles, slightly, seeing if he can replicate whatever he just did, to get Stiles to make those noises again, for him.

It takes a moment, but Scott starts to successfully hit that place inside Stiles fairly consistently now, and Stiles is tearing at the sheets and pushing himself down onto Scott's fingers, and it isn't long before he's able to slide a third finger in. He realizes that Stiles' whines have started to take the form of words, a constant repetition of "more, please, just - please, _more_ ," and - well - who is Scott to say no?

He slides out of Stiles, whose begging suddenly turns to cursing, before nudging him over on his stomach. Stiles realizes quickly what Scott is doing, propping himself up on his forearms, ass in the air, legs spread apart just enough to be comfortable. "Well?" he asks, insistently, and Scott pulls a face.

"You're going to want to give me a second," he reminds Stiles, ripping open a condom he had managed to locate with almost inhuman speed, rolling the latex over himself, before then pouring the lube out onto his hand, coating as much of it as he can onto his cock, which has been entirely too far neglected by this point. He hesitates just a moment before pressing his cock against Stiles' entrance, which is slick with lube itself and more stretched out than before, but he still thinks for a moment that there's no way this is going to work before pushing in, slightly, watching as Stiles' ass stretches even further, opening up for Scott's cock, and Scott thinks he could probably come just from this if he's not careful, because Stiles is so _tight_ around his cock as he slowly sinks in further.

Stiles' arms are trembling slightly, head fallen down and forehead resting against the sheets and small, whimpering noises escape from him. Scott braces himself against Stiles' hips, and he's so far gone - too far gone - that he doesn't even notice that his fingers are digging into his hips, and they're starting to become sharp, _too_ sharp, and they're tearing into tender flesh, little beads of red welling up where he grips him.

But Stiles doesn't notice, either, and when Scott presses himself all the way in, skin against skin, he's not sure how he's ever going to be able to move, and he's not sure if Stiles is going to be able to take it. But he does, after a moment, and Stiles can, of course he can - Stiles cannot heal like Scott has but he has always been able to take more than he expects - and it's a slow rhythm, but it's a rhythm nonetheless that Scott works himself up to.

He searches for the same spot that made Stiles cry out so needily before, and it's not long before he finds it.

"Fuck, ah - " Stiles gasps, voice breathy but halting, and Scott knows that there's a name - another name, _always_ another name, on the tip of his tongue - but Scott will never ask whose.

It's no mystery that while Scott closes his eyes and imagines Stiles' planes are Allison's curves that Stiles is thinking of someone else, too. But - here, in this moment - there is no pretending that the slick skin and coiled muscle beneath his hands could belong to someone else, or that the tight heat surrounding him is anything else besides _Stiles_.

He picks up the pace a little bit more, thrusting roughly against Stiles, who can no longer hold himself up and has collapsed downward, arm folding around his head and clenching at the sheets as he moans with each snap of Scott's thrusts. His other arm is back, hand curled around his cock, pumping in time with Scott. He's desperately pushing back against Scott, as much as he can, forcing him in more, _harder_ , and Scott has to grip down even more to keep balance, and even though he finally notices the trickle of blood that flows down Stiles' hips, and the way his eyes have doubtless turned, he's too close to the edge, teetering over it, and he doesn't find it in himself to care, not when Stiles is making all sorts of noises that may be mixed with pain but are mostly pleasure.

What pushes him over is Stiles suddenly tensing, moaning as he falls over the edge first, coming over his hand and on the sheets, all tension seeping out as his body relaxes and Scott has to hold him up, thrusting in hard, one last time, doubling over Stiles' back as he comes. It's a far bigger release then he's had in - months really, enough that the edges of his vision blur out as all his weight is collapsed onto Stiles.

It's several long moments before either of them are willing to move, and it's Stiles that wriggles beneath Scott first, pushing at him as he mutters, "Okay, big guy, time to get off of me."

Scott does, slowly pulling himself out of Stiles, rolling off the condom and leaving the bed reluctantly to toss it out. When he returns, Stiles’ breath is even enough that he might be fooled into thinking he’s asleep, but Scott knows better - not because of any heightened senses, but because, by now, he knows Stiles all too well; knows the pattern of his breath in deep slumber, and this is not it. He slides into the bed next to him, hooking an arm around Stiles’ waist and pulling him away from the wet spot on the bed - it may be his own, but Scott still isn’t going to make him sleep on it.

The blood on Stiles’ hips has begun to dry, caking onto the skin and fading from a bright red to a dirty brown, and Scott brushes his hand over the wounds - tentatively, worriedly, wondering if, this time, it’s too much. It’s a constant testament to just how much Scott can do to Stiles if he’s not careful, and it feels like an apt metaphor to whatever he’s doing to their friendship, so he places his palm over Stiles’ hip and hides it away from view.

It’s not the right thing to do, and Scott knows this. But Scott has always had Stiles, even if not quite like this, and he will always have Stiles, no matter what he does - 

And, for now, having that is enough.


End file.
